


hands of fate

by palladium



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palladium/pseuds/palladium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny swears they're <i>not</i> heart eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands of fate

**Author's Note:**

> Does this even count as 5+1 things? ... Let's just pretend it does.
> 
> insp. by jon's fond face for pat: [1](http://33.media.tumblr.com/48ba04eb6690a3188fc5088b863d67f9/tumblr_mocz06QwEO1rur9qso1_250.gif), [2](http://38.media.tumblr.com/da47b9c10b0557b2deb8088d09eedab4/tumblr_mocz06QwEO1rur9qso4_250.gif).
> 
> **ETA:** [this masterpiece](http://40.media.tumblr.com/ea8b5134376fdbb6eb2b5bef829028aa/tumblr_nq28fllUHX1skafrko1_500.jpg). Congrats boys!

_i_   _._

 

"C'mon, Jon," Patrick says, skating past Johnny, sounding exasperated. "Be serious."

Johnny makes sure to bump into him a couple more times until the cameras have stopped rolling, keeps pushing, and Patrick pushes back, rolling his eyes.

When they get back in the locker room, Patrick turns to Johnny and knocks his knuckles on Johnny's knees. He's smiling, subtly, trying to keep the emotion of -  _something_  in, and Johnny can't quite place it; the look of exuberance written all over his face, his eyes half shut, his hair un-gelled and falling past his ears, hanging on his forehead. Johnny grabs his wrist and lets it fall off his knee. "What?"

"There's a stall open. Wanna go?"

"Nah, you go first." Johnny looks away from Patrick's eyes, gleaming blue and his face soft and relaxed, movements languid as he gets up and stretches. "You stink more," he adds, just to hear Patrick gawk and say, "am  _not_!" and then, "you wish you smelled  _this_  fresh." Johnny gets up and steers Patrick towards the showers. "Yeah, yeah," he rolls his eyes, smiling.

Patrick's out in fifteen, just slightly longer than he usually takes, and there's only a few guys left in the locker now, since apparently everyone else had somewhere else to be. Johnny's just about to go, stalls were open after Patrick went in, but Johnny's not in a rush today. Instead, he waits until Patrick comes out, his hair sticking to his cheeks now, lashes wet and clinging together, the darkened shade of gold prominent. Johnny passes by him and nudges him with a shoulder.

"Fucking weirdo," Patrick says, nudging back, watching as Johnny walks into the stall he was just in. "Are you secretly obsessed with me, or do you think I'm hiding drugs in there?"

"Both," Johnny calls back.

Patrick's cleaning up his things and already packed up and ready when Johnny's finished. Two other guys are in there now, only, and Johnny watches as Patrick turns to him and sighs. "Anytime now, honestly, Jon."

"Shut up," Johnny mumbles back, his cheeks rising.

When they're finally out of the arena, Johnny wonders what he's up to now, and if he's really got anything else to do for the day. They've got a game in two days, practice tomorrow and an optional one the day after, but Johnny's not at all worried. He glances at Patrick, thinking maybe he'd want to come over, get some takeout and sit on the couch watching game clips from last night. 

Patrick's not looking back. Instead, he's tilted to one side, in the midst of hitching his bag up higher on his shoulder, and his eyes are cast down. Johnny realizes after a moment, that Patrick's got some gel back in his hair, curls no longer loose and hanging on his forehead. When Patrick finally catches his gaze, Johnny flinches slightly, but he doesn't look away. He saying, "wanna come over?" before his mind's even processed it.

Patrick shrugs. "Sure. Got nothing else better to do." He hitches his bag up again, walking further to the left of Johnny. "I'll be there in an hour or so. Gonna take another shower and Skype my sisters first."

"Yeah," Johnny says, distracted by the way Patrick blinks, squinting underneath the spread of the sun. "See you in an hour."

Later, when Patrick's at Johnny's place and Johnny's ordered Chinese, Patrick stops mid-step and looks at Johnny, hopeful.

"Yes," Johnny says, just as Patrick's opening his mouth. "I got orange chicken."

Patrick grins. His hair is loose again, and a little frizzy from his second shower. His eyes are crinkled at the corners and Johnny wants to roll his eyes about how genuinely happy Patrick is always about orange chicken. "Awesome, man. You love me."

Johnny does roll his eyes. His tongue is stuck in his throat wondering whether to say  _duh_  or  _not a chance_ , but he settles on, "you don't get any," just to hear Patrick choke on his rice and glare at Johnny accusingly. "I'm kidding, Jesus."

As Patrick's digging happily into his chicken, Johnny stabs at one with his chopsticks, fingers uncoordinated. "How can one person love orange chicken so fucking much, I don't even know."

"Shut up," Patrick says, in the middle of his chewing. Johnny doesn't know whether to look away because it's gross or to keep looking. "The person who doesn't like orange chicken is probably the next serial killer."

"Uh huh," Johnny says, deciding to keep looking; it's kind of a shame. "You're definitely right."

"I'm always right," Patrick scoffs.

They watch a couple of clips and highlights from last night's game and then play Xbox for a couple hours, before Patrick's already starting to pass out on Johnny's couch. "I wanna crash," he whines. "Why did you move, man? Your condo was right across from Trump before, now I've got to fucking drive an extra 20 minutes here."

"Crash here," Johnny says, shrugging. "This place has five bedrooms, man."

Patrick glares at him. "Dude! My spares were in your condo, and we moved that shit out when you decided you were closing the deal on this place. I don't have shit here, Johnny." A beat later, "drive me home or I'll fall asleep behind the wheel."

"I'm not driving you home, Kaner," Johnny says. "Do you really need to change into a different shirt and shit? Just fucking shower when you get home in the morning."

"Gross. I'm not sleeping in these jeans, man. I don't know the last time they were washed. It might have been last week or two months ago."

"You have a cleaning person," Johnny points out. "How the hell do you have dirty laundry?"

"I don't know!"

"Okay, Jesus, you fucking baby," Johnny groans. "You wanna wear my stuff?" He's thrown a lot of them out since he moved, but he's kept some; old Shattuck-St. Mary's shirts and a couple of his rookie Blackhawks shirts from 2008 or 2009 or something. Johnny doesn't know if Patrick can fit his shorts, though.

Patrick agrees after a couple more minutes of whining and yawning, and Johnny throws a bunch of shirts at him so he can try them on. "What the fuck, I don't need this many. I don't care if they don't fit that well, they're just shirts, Jon." And then he pulls a random SSM shirt over his head, and Johnny can't help but stare at his own name spreading wide over the span of Patrick's back. The shirt fits well, tighter on the shoulders but flaring out slightly at the waist instead of hugging in. Johnny passes Patrick his old SSM sweats and Patrick takes them without arguing.

"'Night," he says, walking into a random room, and Johnny can't get the image of Patrick, weary and yawning, curls tucked behind one ear and in Johnny's old SSM clothes, out of his head. He guesses it's a normal feeling as he walks to his bedroom.

 

 

 

 

_ii._

 

Johnny's on Patrick the moment the buzzer sounds. His vision is blurred, his ears are ringing, his hands are shaking and he feels about ten degrees too hot. Patrick's grinning at him, wide and so, so familiar. "Hey, buddy," Johnny says, so quiet as he pulls him in. Patrick goes, his eyes wet, curls everywhere, cheeks flushed.

"Jon," he's screaming, his voice broken from yelling. "We did it. We fucking did it, man."

"You did," Johnny says, right in his ears. Patrick tucks his face into Johnny's shoulder, probably crying, the loser. Johnny tugs him closer. " _You_  did it, Pat.  _You_  fucking did it."

"I love you, Johnny," Patrick says, muffled in Johnny's jersey. "You're fucking great."

When he looks up and Johnny finally lets go, Patrick's face is red and blotchy, still grinning. He looks like the happiest person ever, and absolutely the most incredible thing Johnny's ever seen. The next great one, Johnny thinks, as he hooks an arm around Patrick just before the cameras are on them and Patrick's blinked back the rest of his tears. Johnny wants to have Patrick here with him all the time. Not just for these moments, either.

"Yeah," Patrick's saying into a mic. Johnny lets him go and Patrick glances at him briefly. It hits Johnny like a brick: the wet stain of tear streaks on the high of his cheeks, still red, eyelashes matted, curls wild and tucked under his crooked hat. It hits Johnny like a punch to his gut that hey, that's what happiness looks like. In any - and every - rendition of the word. Johnny skates away to hug the rest of his team.

 

 

 

 

_iii._

 

"Right," Sharpy's saying as Johnny hangs his skates. "Did you even watch the video, Johnny? Heart eyes, man, all over the fucking screen like a plain obvious joke."

Johnny rolls his eyes. "Does that even make any sense?"

"Not the point, Toews."

"Uh huh," Johnny says, keeping his voice low. "So I looked like I gave him heart eyes, that's great, Sharpy. I'd give fucking anyone heart eyes after winning us the cup, man."

"Nah, these heart eyes were different. C'mon, Johnny. So your head doesn't conjure up poetry about Kaner's face sometimes? 'Cause you really look like that's happened to you before. I had them for Abby - "

"Please," Johnny cuts in. "Can we not talk about it? My head isn't that fucked up to make poetry about Kaner's fucking face."

"Fuck you," Patrick says automatically, coming out of nowhere and stepping up to stand next to Johnny. "My face is fucking awesome, you're just jealous. Also, why are we talking about my face?"

"Johnny's in love with your face, Peeks," Sharpy says, and then laughs. Johnny glares holes at him.

"Who isn't," Patrick says easily. He nudges Johnny. "Takeout and movies? I've got nothing else planned for today, man."

It takes Johnny a moment. One moment he's zipping up his bag, and the next he's staring at Patrick, shaking his head, wondering what in the hell is wrong with himself. Patrick's hair is still a little wet and he's giving Johnny this familiar smile that makes Johnny's stomach jump. "Sure," he says, before he's even fully registered the question, and Sharpy laughs again.

"Proving me wrong or right, Tazer?" He says, and Johnny punches him.

Johnny follows Patrick home, since Patrick complained last time and Johnny's better at staying awake. Patrick's got this look of pure excitement, his eyes bright and his smile wide. Johnny can't quite place  _why_  watching Patrick when he's happy makes  _him_  feel - the same, or something. But he guesses that's something everyone feels for everyone; it's  _normal_  to feel joy for someone else, or similarly, feel sad for someone else. With Patrick, the feeling comes in waves, each stronger than the last. Right now, though, all Johnny can do is stare.

"Stop looking at me like that, freak," Patrick hisses, as they're going up the elevator. Johnny blinks and looks away, sort of dazed. 

When they get into Patrick's place, Patrick's saying something about what to eat and what to do. Johnny says, "Italian?" then, "I thought we were gonna watch a movie." Patrick groans, tells Johnny he's boring and annoying, and Johnny shrugs. "Okay, fine. Thai?"

"Italian's fine," Patrick rolls his eyes. "You call, though. I'm gonna take a shower."

So Johnny calls and orders linguini and fettuccini with marinara and alfredo from Vaggio, and sets up Patrick's TV. When Patrick's out of the shower, he's changed into a Blackhawks sweater and shorts. He keeps swiping at his hair, trying to keep it from falling over his eyes, and Johnny rolls his eyes and does it for him. "Thanks," Patrick says, and Johnny looks away.

"Do you want linguini or fettuccini?" Johnny asks, instead, and then falls back on the couch. "Also, we better not be watching your damn sister's chick-flicks."

"Linguini and fuck you, my sisters are awesome," Patrick says, automatically. He falls back on the couch, too, next to Johnny. Johnny can smell his shampoo from here, scrubbed clean, and the span of Patrick's neck not covered by his hair or his sweater is suddenly Johnny's focus of attention. Patrick turns to him, then, and Johnny looks up. "Quit it," Patrick frowns. "Did you even hear what I just said?" Then, "oh my God, was Sharpy telling the truth? You love my face, don't you,  _Toews_  - "

Johnny flushes. "Shut up, who would love your face? Just put the damn movie in, Kaner."

" _Everybody_  would and  _does_  love my face," Patrick says. "Admit it, Jon, you're jealous of my awesome looks."

"Uh huh," Johnny deadpans, the embarrassment fading away. He knocks his knuckles on Patrick's bare knee, and Patrick flinches from the touch. "Whatever you want, Kaner."

Patrick's silent for a moment before he gets up to pick a movie to put in. He ends up making Johnny watch Homeland on Netflix with him. They're on the couch, doing nothing but waiting for delivery and watching TV, then paying the delivery guy and eating the food while watching TV, and then Patrick falling asleep again.

Johnny's not sure whether he should be telling Patrick to get up and go to bed and then leave, or just - sit here, and continue watching Patrick sleep like a freak.

He does the latter for a couple of minutes until he realizes that it's weird, and then he wakes up Patrick. "Fucking go to sleep in your bed."

"Where 're you gon' go, then," he mumbles, speech slurred, and face drooping back into his hand to inevitably fall back asleep.

"I'm gonna go home," Johnny says, and shoves at Patrick again. Patrick groans at him. "Kaner, you'll fuck up your wrist again. Go sleep in your bed, man."

"Leave me alone," Patrick whines. "Or don't, whatever." Johnny rolls his eyes. Patrick looks absolutely ridiculous. And it's not the first time Johnny's seen him like this, but it's still funny: the way Patrick's hair has fallen all over his face, his cheek mashed into his palm, mouth open, breathing deep. Johnny feels something tug at the corner of his lips, then at the pit of his stomach. Patrick opens his eyes. "You could stay if you want. Since you seem to want to watch my face forever."

"No way," Johnny says, but his voice is soft. He pulls Patrick up and Patrick goes, standing a little unsteady for a moment so Johnny has to settle him. "C'mon, Kaner, bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'Kay," Patrick mumbles. "Later, Johnny. Don't miss my face too much."

Johnny humours him. "I'll try."

 

 

 

 

_iv._

 

Patrick's hair is growing; his soft, usual short curls gradually becoming into something probably more embarrassing-looking, but Johnny can't bring himself to believe it. He says it, sure, but he stares, and stares, and stares.

He gets asked about it, during an interview with Patrick right beside him, and Johnny turns to look - even though he's looked before; he's been looking since it started growing. Patrick says, "I've trimmed it," as if to make a point, and Johnny stares at Patrick's hair then the span of his neck.

"Well," Johnny says, half distracted. "He can walk around looking like an idiot if he wants to." He turns to Kaner and says, "so that's fine, do your thing." Patrick rolls his eyes but he beams at him, eyes blue, and Johnny smiles right back.

"He's jealous of it, sometimes," Patrick says, to the interviewer, and laughs. He laughs in this deep rumble, low in his throat, and his mouth is spread wide. He glances over at Johnny, and Johnny can't help but notice the way Patrick's face crinkling in some areas, his eyes half shut from smiling, his teeth white and glaring back. "He can't stop staring at it."

Johnny nods, going along with it. "Totally, 100% jealous. For sure."

Patrick grins at him, and all Johnny can do is grin back.

 

 

 

 

_v._

 

Johnny's SSM shirt makes another appearance, out of nowhere, the next time he's at Patrick's place waiting for him to finish showering. He's got Mario Kart set up and ready, and they have bowls of curry in the kitchen. When Patrick walks out, he's wearing Johnny's familiar grey SSM shirt with the maroon lettering of Johnny's name on his back. He's not wearing Johnny's sweats, but Johnny still feels embarrassed. "Um," he says, and Patrick blinks at him.

"Still had them," Patrick shrugs at Johnny's raised brow. He tugs on the hem, just a little, so Johnny can follow the curve of his collarbone underneath. "Why not wear them, I thought." He doesn't look like he's joking, the way he says it, like he's trying so hard to not sound obvious. He's not looking at Johnny, either, picking at the hem over and over, distracting himself. Johnny can't help but just take the sight of him in, everything he's known about Patrick up to this point, up to this moment, suddenly seems blurred; Johnny takes him in and thinks - and keeps thinking.

"Pat - "

Patrick holds a hand up. "If you're gonna say something, Jon, you better say what I hope you're going to say." He turns around, heading to the kitchen, and suddenly all Johnny can see is his own name, blaring big and wide over Patrick's back. It looks like it's conveying something ridiculously obvious, something meaningful, and Johnny's heart is in his throat.

"You should keep wearing them," Johnny says, slightly disoriented, the words coming out before he's had a chance to think why he's saying it. Patrick stops. "You should - Pat, fuck. I don't know. I just - "

"What, Johnny?"

"I want you to wear them," Johnny says, breathing in deep. He traces his name with his eyes, watching the way it folds and creases along Patrick's body. It's so glaringly obvious, Johnny thinks, that of course he couldn't have figured it out ahead of time. Half the time he was so focused on Patrick, the way he smiled or the way his hair seemed always out of place, his eyes bright blue. "Kaner - "

"I've noticed, you know," Patrick says, turning back around. He looks sheepish, smirking arrogantly, the brand of SSM written over his chest that hits Johnny like a punch. "Why, though?"

"Why what?"

Patrick rolls his eyes and steps closer to Johnny. "Why do you look at me sometimes like I'm the only thing that matters?"

The question stops Johnny. He freezes; it's so obvious, of course it is, of course Sharpy was right, he's always right. But right now, Johnny looks. He looks at Patrick and feels the rush of the waves, from the way Patrick's grinning. He looks and sees the way Patrick's dimples show, even just slightly, his nose a little too big for his face, eyebrows strangely shaped, eyelashes long and brushing against his cheek as he blinks. Johnny looks and realizes that he's been staring, all this time, because Patrick  _is_  the most incredible thing Johnny's ever seen. He thinks back to when he thought that after winning the cup, jumping on Patrick and feeling his heart surge in his chest as Patrick looked back, eyes wet with excitement and every other emotion that could convey happiness. And -  _Jesus_. It hits Johnny like a punch again, only ten times harder, and Johnny is so, so fucked. "Because you are," Johnny says, finally, his voice pinched.

Patrick smiles, familiar, and says: "get it now?" Johnny blinks, stupidly, and Patrick rolls his eyes again. "You're so fucking slow, Jon, c'mon."

"I get it," Johnny snaps, just because he kind of wants to stare at Patrick without interruption.

"Good," Patrick laughs. "Now are you going to kiss me finally, or am I going to have to do all the work?"

Johnny watches again as Patrick's face lights up, lines smooth and hair messy but tucked behind one ear, cheeks high and flushed and his mouth open in a grin. He blinks up at Johnny, waiting dauntingly, and Johnny feels the rush again.

He leans down and kisses him, just as Patrick hooks his arms around Johnny's neck and pulls him in.

 

 

 

 

 

_\+ vi._

 

Johnny's fiddling with his pockets. He's sitting in his boat, with Patrick on the deck next to him, out in the open lake. He can't see the way Patrick looks from here, since Patrick's turned away from the sun, but Johnny feels nervous anyway, his throat tight and his hands picking and picking at his pockets.

"Can something ever be as boring but as equally relaxing as lying in a boat in the middle of a goddamn lake?" Patricks laughs to himself.

"This is awesome, shut up," Johnny says. Patrick knocks his elbow on Johnny's knees, looking up all of a sudden to grin at him. He hasn't changed much, Johnny thinks. He still looks like everything Johnny's mapped him out to be, still everything Johnny's wanted - and more. Johnny's always mentally noting about random, particular details: Patrick's hair alternating between above his shoulders and past his shoulders through the years; Patrick's eyes blinking up at Johnny, the shade of blue and gold, always makes his breath catch in his throat - as ridiculous as it sounds; Patrick's stupid summer freckles, always dotted randomly over his cheeks, and Johnny never looking away even while he nods as Patrick whines about them.

But Patrick, still - still, as Johnny looks at him drenched in the sun, wearing something millionaires like them probably shouldn't be wearing, his hair a little floppy, hands clasped behind his head -  _still_ , he looks so familiar. They might be growing older, but Patrick - Patrick's still just the same as Johnny's imagined him, seen him, thought of him.

Johnny wants to fuck him up, and more appropriately, he wants to  _keep_  him. Sharpy's voice echoes in his head, then, out of nowhere, saying: "are you proving me wrong or right, Toews?" and Johnny thinks:  _I'm proving you_ _right_.

So he decides, fuck it, he's going to do this - and pulls his hands out of his pocket. "Pat - "

"What?" Patrick turns around again, face pressed into his arm, the movement slow and languid and, squinting, he focuses his eyes on the gleaming metal band pinched between Johnny's fingers. It dawns on him in an instant, hitting him like a train: it's a fucking ring. " _What_?"

"So, I was thinking - "

"No, wait, shut up," Patrick says, shaking his head, sitting up abruptly, his whole body seizing up. "C'mon, Jon," he's saying, his voice so soft all of a sudden, quivering. "Be serious. Please be serious."

Johnny exhales loudly. He's so damn close to rolling his eyes and shouting profanity from the relief - things like,  _am I_ serious? and  _like fucking hell I'm not_. In the end, he settles for: "I am. I could never be more fucking serious."

Patrick's silent for a moment, and Johnny can't actually see his eyes, since he's wearing sunglasses, so he only notices Patrick's  _crying_  when he sees the streak run down to his chin. "Johnny, oh my God. Oh my  _God_ , fuck you so hard.  _Fuck_."

"Holy shit, are you  _crying_?"

"Shut up, like you wouldn't if I did it to you before you did, asshole," Patrick lifts his glasses and rubs his palm into his eyes, just as Johnny laughs and pulls him into his arms. The boat rocks and Patrick leans heavily onto Johnny. He smells of his shampoo and the open lake, skin a little damp from sweat, but still soft as Johnny touches. " _Yes_ , you fucking dick. Yes, a billion light years  _yes_ ," he mumbles into Johnny's neck, and Johnny actually laughs. "I fucking hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," Johnny says, smiling fondly, and puts the ring on Patrick's finger.


End file.
